


Incorrigible

by i_claudia



Series: Gentlemen of Quality [6]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-14
Updated: 2010-05-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 20:49:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin doesn’t especially enjoy horses, but when Arthur rolls over in the dark to watch him fumble his way back into his clothes and says, “Come with us today, riding,” with something like mischief in his eyes, Merlin agrees before he thinks about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incorrigible

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/52694.html). (14 May 2010)

Merlin doesn’t especially enjoy horses, but when Arthur rolls over in the dark to watch him fumble his way back into his clothes and says, “Come with us today, riding,” with something like mischief in his eyes, Merlin agrees before he thinks about it. He’s hardly seen Arthur recently, even though they’re both in the country to visit the Pendragon estates for the month (with what feels like half the fashionable people of London but is really only a few of Arthur’s associates and maybe a cousin or three); some obscure important relative Merlin’s never heard of is visiting Uther, and Arthur’s time has been almost entirely monopolized. Merlin’s been trying not to feel resentful, but it’s difficult when his time with Arthur has to be measured in snatched minutes, in seconds, rather than in hours.

He nearly changes his mind once daylight arrives, but goes along in the end, resigned to an afternoon of sneezing and vicious beasts both human and four-legged as the price of spending time with Arthur. 

In the end it isn’t as terrible as he expected. A certain Mr Wickley who Arthur knows somehow makes a few sly comments about Merlin’s seat on a horse, but Merlin just sets his jaw and concentrates on not falling off entirely. They ride at a sedate pace at first, through open fields, just enjoying the sunshine as the clustered group spreads out, and Arthur guides his horse alongside Merlin’s as he chatters on about things which sound significantly uncomfortable and that Merlin assumes probably have something to do with horses. Merlin nods at what he thinks are the appropriate points and sneaks looks at Arthur out of the corner of his eye, trying to figure out how Arthur sits so _solidly_ on top of his beast when Merlin feels like he’s about to fall off at any moment, until Arthur really looks at him and laughs suddenly, delightedly.

“You haven’t a clue what I’m talking about, do you?” he asks, and Merlin is forced to admit he probably wouldn’t know a saddle from a stirrup if it reared up and bit him.

“Which horses have done before,” he tells Arthur, looking mistrustfully at the horse he’s been given to ride. “On more than one occasion, disagreeable creatures.”

Arthur laughs again. “Poor Merlin,” he teases. “Set upon by dreadful animals at every turn.” He chances a look around and nudges his horse closer, leaning over to brush two fingers over the back of Merlin’s hand for a moment, just where the sleeve of Merlin’s sack coat ends. “I promise I’ll make it worth it,” he says quietly, and Merlin, reckless, lets his gaze rake up and down to take in Arthur’s shirt, sweaty around the collar, and his fitted riding trousers.

“I’ll make sure of it,” Merlin says with a significant look, and Arthur grins, kicking his horse into a canter, racing past the other men of their group.

It’s all going rather splendidly – by hanging back with the ladies, who’ve been riding at a more sedate, sane pace, Merlin has an excellent view of Arthur’s arse and his flexing thighs; God bless whoever invented jodhpurs – when a stout, severe-looking woman comes up to ride next to him.

“I’m not sure I caught your name,” she says bluntly, without even a cursory attempt at polite conversation.

Merlin blinks, but he’s nothing if not quick on his feet. “Merlin Emrys,” he says smoothly with a nod of his head. “I’m a friend of Arthur’s.”

The woman makes a sound which is probably disapproving, and peers at Merlin. “I’ve never heard that surname before.”

“My family lives abroad,” he tells her; it’s become his standard lie in perfumed company, and it tends to avert most of the awkward questions about his lineage and why he’s hanging around Arthur Pendragon if he doesn’t have any.

“A Frenchman, eh?” Merlin doesn’t bother answering; if that’s what she’s decided he is, that’s what he’ll be. Half of London already thinks he’s from Paris, and the others all argue over whether he’s from Vienna or Florence or Prague. “You ride like a sack of potatoes, boy. Didn’t you ever learn the proper way to ride?”

Merlin thinks quickly. “My cousin has a mortal fear of horses; we never had lessons.”

“You frogs come up with the queerest excuses to avoid work,” a man says, riding up on the other side of Merlin – Merlin thinks his name is Lord Florien Curlicue, or something similarly ridiculous. He’s the kind of man who thinks too highly of himself, who puts too much pomade in his hair and checks his reflection more than any of the ladies in the group, and Merlin has no patience for him and therefore has never bothered to learn his real name. “Lady Catherine, might I...”

“You’re interrupting me,” Lady Catherine says severely, and Lord Calidoodle cringes, just a little, before putting his shoulders back and his nose up, galloping away.

Lady Catherine turns back to Merlin, fixing him with a beady, measuring stare. “Now, young Emory,” she begins, and Merlin has just enough time to think _Emrys_ irritably before he finds himself the subject of an intensive lecture on the history of horsemanship.

He’d thought at first it would be better to pretend interest, but after the first quarter-hour of listening to the tiny details of the care and breeding of horses, Merlin is more than ready to throw himself under his horse’s hooves in order to get out of hearing another word about flanks or teeth or bridles.

He concentrates on watching Arthur instead, remembering to nod and smile at Lady Catherine once every so often; luckily he’s become excellent at feigning commitment to a conversation. They’re on their way back to the house, now, everyone distracted and thinking about lunch, which is waiting for them, and Merlin’s able to let Lady Catherine’s voice wash over him without much trouble.

Merlin’s so intent on not paying particular attention to anything that nearly misses it the first time, when Arthur canters past them, showing off: the minutest of winces, a flash of discomfort in Arthur’s face as he moves with the horse. Merlin’s puzzled for a moment, worried, until he remembers that same expression on Arthur’s face that morning as he sat up, remembers the night they’d spent together, remembers Arthur begging him for harder, faster, clutching at the headboard with sweaty hands as he thrust his hips up to meet Merlin’s and Merlin fucked him until neither of them could stand it anymore. They’d fallen asleep in a sticky half-embrace, blankets pulled up against the chill damp still clinging to the tail end of spring, and before Merlin had crept out of the room in the quiet hours after midnight they’d gone again, hot and close beneath the bedclothes, Merlin biting his quiet gasps into Arthur’s chest, pressing deep while Arthur made choked moans and dug his fingers into Merlin’s shoulders hard enough to bruise.

“Sit forward, boy!” Lady Catherine calls out imperiously, and Merlin tries to shift without falling off until he realises that she was talking to _Arthur_.

“My nephew enjoys showing off,” she comments, disapproving, and Merlin realises with a start that _this_ is the infamous relative Arthur has been talking about, the one who apparently may or may not leave him a hideously large fortune whenever she decides to move on to greener, less corporeal pastures.

Before that really has a chance to sink in, though, it’s overtaken by a creeping sort of horror, the knowledge that he’s growing hard from watching Arthur _in front of_ Arthur’s dragon of a dowager aunt.

He shifts uncomfortably, leaning down so that his coat will swing lower across his thighs, trying to disguise the unfortunate fact from Lady Catherine. He watches Arthur in a daze now, overwhelmingly aware of the muscles moving in Arthur’s legs as he shifts on the horse, of the tiny creases between his eyes and the way he catches at his lip with his teeth; he imagines what Arthur must be feeling, every movement reminding him of the ache Merlin had left inside, and God, this is _not helping_.

Arthur trots by again, and happens to meet Merlin’s gaze. Merlin knows his thoughts are clear on his face, open for the reading, and Arthur’s eyes go wide before they turn dark with intent, darting to where Merlin’s coat doesn’t quite cover his lap.

“Shall we speed up our pace?” Arthur says abruptly, turning to the rest of their party. “I think we can persuade the Lady Morgana to serenade us on the pianoforte before lunch.” He doesn’t give anyone a choice, really, urging his horse into a quick trot. They follow him, but Lady Catherine is far from content at letting him set the pace.

“Arthur,” she orders, “come back here. You call that a proper seat?”

Merlin can see the resigned cast to Arthur’s face, but he doubts anyone else knows Arthur well enough to catch it. Certainly Lady Catherine is oblivious. She nags at Arthur the entire ride back to the house, putting Arthur through his paces and criticising him at every turn. Normally, Merlin would find the whole thing quite funny – he always approves of people taking Arthur down a peg or two, just to keep him human – but there’s nothing humourous about this situation, about Arthur shooting him heated looks every time Lady Catherine’s back is turned or the fact that riding with an erection is one of the most uncomfortable experiences of his life.

Once they reach the house and servants take their houses, Arthur wastes no time in shepherding the party inside and ensuring that Lady Catherine has the best seat to hear Morgana play before he takes his leave, claiming pressing business.

“I won’t be a moment,” he assures Lady Catherine, who gives him a severe look before turning to listen to Morgana, and Merlin waits two entire minutes to make sure she isn’t watching before slipping out after Arthur. 

Arthur pulls him into an alcove as he goes by, and Merlin manages a full second of gravitas before collapsing into helpless laughter, clutching at Arthur for support. “Her face,” he gasps as Arthur glares at him. “Christ, _your_ face when she said you were riding like a fop.”

“Hmm,” says Arthur darkly, and drags Merlin down the hall, ducking twice into empty rooms to avoid servants. Merlin stops snickering into Arthur’s shoulders after the second time, when Arthur presses close against him in a shadowed corner and whispers, “Shh,” into his ear, voice commanding and lips just barely brushing against the curving shell.

The touch sends a hot urgency washing through Merlin, and he shivers, grabbing hard at Arthur’s wrist to keep the room from tilting too violently. Arthur pulls back a fraction, and Merlin’s breath catches at the loss. He sways forward before remembering that they’re in an open room in the middle of the day, that anyone might walk in and see them standing too close for innocent explanations.

“Come on,” he says, low, tugging at Arthur’s wrist. Even the lightest whisper sounds betrayingly loud and harsh here; they have to find sanctuary, find Arthur’s room, where the door locks and keeps their words and promises secret.

When they do finally stumble into Arthur’s room, late afternoon sunlight filtering through half-drawn red drapes and throwing long shadows over the floorboards, Merlin wastes no time on formalities, pinning Arthur against the door even as he slides the lock home.

“Been wanting you all afternoon,” Merlin breathes, pressing forward and trying to trap Arthur’s free hand. “Whoever came up with the idea of horse riding was a cruel, vindictive bastard.”

“I think you mean cross dowager aunts,” Arthur argues, taking a fistful of Merlin’s shirt and forcing him back, step by step, to the bed, still rumpled from the night before. The maids aren’t allowed into Arthur’s room anymore without his express permission, not when it’s too risky that they might stumble over something incriminating. “I thought I was going to throw her under her own horse – back, Arthur, now forward, trot – and every step I could feel you...”

He gives Merlin a final push, sending him stumbling back to land hard on the bed; Merlin drags Arthur with him at the last moment, latching onto his sweaty shirt and yanking. They grapple in the sheets, heedless of Merlin’s newly pressed trousers or anything that isn’t their bodies in motion, intertwined. Arthur’s biting vicious marks into Merlin’s skin, following his hands as he unbuttons Merlin’s shirt, shoving it off his shoulders, and Merlin retaliates by burying one hand in Arthur’s hair and dragging him up for a bruising kiss, taking advantage of Arthur’s distraction to roll them over until Arthur’s beneath him. He gets his knees on either side of Arthur, braces his hands on Arthur’s arms just above the elbows, and sits up a little, shifts until Arthur’s hard cock is pressing hot along the crease of his arse.

“My turn to ride something,” he says, and it’s awful; part of him can’t quite believe Arthur has reduced him to something so crass as a pun like that, but a larger part is entirely unconcerned with finesse and is merely glad he was able to form a coherent thought at all, especially one that makes Arthur go so delightfully hot-eyed with pleasure.

“God, yes,” Arthur says feelingly, rolling his hips up with definite intention. “Yes, Merlin.”

Merlin doesn’t need encouragement, is already busy pulling at Arthur’s shirt and yanking it over Arthur’s head, Arthur squirming beneath him in an attempt to help and twitching whenever their cocks rub together. Merlin finally leaves Arthur to wrestle with the shirt in favour of tugging at Arthur’s jodhpurs, scrambling back to pull them and Arthur’s riding boots off entirely – and oh, he has _plans_ for those boots, for later – before divesting himself of his own trousers and crawling back up the bed to lavish kisses over Arthur’s stomach, following a meandering trail down toward where Arthur’s cock bobs, hard and already damp at the tip.

“Merlin,” Arthur growls warningly, and sucks in a sharp breath at the first touch of Merlin’s tongue on his cock. Merlin takes a moment to pin Arthur’s hips firmly with his hands before lowering his head and taking Arthur into his mouth, humming around the familiar taste, the hot weight of Arthur’s cock.

He wants to take his time, suck Arthur deep and tease him until he’s beyond words, wants to trace the head with his tongue and lick hot stripes down around Arthur’s balls to draw out the delicious strangled noises Arthur makes when Merlin does something unexpected, but Arthur grabs at Merlin’s hair, winding his fingers in and tugging him up hard.

“Merlin,” he demands. “ _Now_ ; I’m going to – I just—” Merlin drags his lips up the side of Arthur’s cock in a teasing kiss, and Arthur arches up helplessly, his fingers tightening until Merlin winces a little. “ _Merlin_.”

Merlin sits back and leans up to quiet Arthur with a proper kiss, meltingly slow, until Arthur fumbles a hand beneath his pillow for the slick – a small glass bottle of oil Merlin is nearly positive Arthur stole from the kitchens – and shoves it at him, murmuring: “I want to watch you.”

Merlin takes the bottle with a cocky smile and leans back, settling firmly above Arthur. He starts slow, giving his cock a few luxurious pulls before trailing his hand down, tracing over his balls and sliding one finger back.

Arthur makes a soft noise, somewhere deep in his throat, and Merlin spreads his legs further, sliding his finger in slowly, letting his eyes fall closed at the sensation. They’re still finding new things to try, still exploring each other, and it’s been a while since Merlin had Arthur – had anyone – inside him, but the finger slides easily enough and he tips his head forward as he presses in, intent.

Two fingers widens the stretch deliciously, and he lets himself give a quiet moan purely from delight at the way the sound feels thrumming in his chest, at the way Arthur goes tense under him. Merlin’s moving his hips now, pushing back on his own fingers; it’s good, so good, but it isn’t enough. He wants more, and he looks at Arthur, who’s gripping at the sheets so tightly his knuckles have gone white. His mouth is hanging just slightly open, his breathing shallow, and his eyes are dark and heavy-lidded.

“Let me,” he says, voice raspy from want. “Merlin, damn you; let me...”

Merlin tilts his head, considers for a moment, but he doesn’t want to wait longer, needs Arthur inside him, and Arthur is so brilliantly breathless beneath him already, unable to stop the short, abortive rolls of his hips in the futile hope of friction. It’s the work of seconds to brace one hand Arthur’s shoulder, fingers sliding a little and leaving a slick trail of oil; the work of only a few more to reach back and guide Arthur to his entrance, lowering himself deliberately onto Arthur’s cock.

Arthur grips hard at Merlin’s thighs as he thrusts his hips up to meet Merlin, and Merlin shifts, adjusts to the fullness, the uncomfortable stretch wound tight around flaring pleasure. His skin feels too hot, stretched thin between his shoulders and up his back, and when Arthur thrusts again shivers chase each other along his spine.

They find a rhythm easily, slip into the rise and fall of it with almost effortless familiarity, and God, Merlin always forgets how _good_ this is, the slide of Arthur deep within him, pressing at something fundamental, something beyond pleasure, as his fingers dig into Merlin’s skin. The world falls away from them here, retreats far beyond the curtains of Arthur’s bed, and it’s just the two of them moving together, Arthur’s hands tight on Merlin’s hips and Arthur’s cock inside him, pushing him a little further into burning bliss with every stroke.

He balances there on the edge for as long as he can bear, just relishing the perfect motion of it all, but even this isn’t enough, in the end. He wants more, needs to be closer to Arthur, wants Arthur covering inch of his skin until there’s no part of him left untouched, unmarked. Arthur’s trying to bite back his words but they slip out between his lips with every gasp, every breath: _harder_ and _yes_ and _Merlin, like that, yes_ and _please, joy, please_ , words which neither of them will dare speak of later but which send hot shudders through Merlin, bring him that much closer to the brink.

Arthur runs his hands along Merlin’s side, strokes his palms down Merlin’s belly, and Merlin quivers under the touch, trembling now. “Merlin,” Arthur murmurs, almost reverently, the slanting sunlight lighting the sheen of sweat on his skin, making him glow. His hair is in total disarray, damp and sticking to his forehead, and Merlin leans down on impulse, tangling one hand in it and pressing his lips to the corner of Arthur’s open mouth, more an exchange of breath than a kiss. Arthur gives a powerful roll of his hips and Merlin cries out, shoves his hips back hard, because yes, _yes_ , that’s it—

“Yes,” he gasps, “Arthur, come on, fuck, like – _oh_ , Christ, yes – just like that,” and Arthur thrusts up again, and again, driving into him, panting with the effort of it, and Merlin can’t stop his moans any more, feels them rolling out of his throat even as he tries to stifle them against Arthur’s skin. He can feel release hovering, pulling in at the corners of his vision, and he clenches hard around Arthur, wants to feel Arthur spill deep inside, wants to watch Arthur fall apart first – but Arthur wraps a hand around his cock and pulls, drags a thumb across the head, and Merlin comes with a wild groan.

Arthur’s moving almost frantically now, hands moving to Merlin’s hips to pull him down hard as he thrusts, and Merlin tightens around him again, meets Arthur’s eyes and says: “Arthur—”

He’s going to say more, going to unleash every filthy thought he can, but Arthur arches, pushing his head back into the pillow, and comes with a full body shudder that sends tingling aftershocks racing over Merlin’s skin.

Merlin levers himself up, twitching a little when Arthur’s softening cock slips out of him, before he slumps down carefully onto Arthur’s chest. He can feel his own come cooling between them, feel a little of Arthur’s seed sliding out of his tender hole, but he has no desire to move, possibly ever.

“Going to stick like that,” Arthur murmurs into his hair, and Merlin makes a protesting whuffling noise.

“Comfortable,” he points out, but Arthur’s having none of that. He pushes feebly at Merlin’s shoulder until Merlin acquiesces with a sigh and rolls off, tucking his back up along Arthur’s side instead.

Arthur turns a little, slips an arm over him and pulls him in snugly. “Should wash,” he says, tracing lazy designs into Merlin’s skin with a fingertip. “There’s lunch; have to go.”

“Hush,” Merlin orders sleepily. “You talk too much. Pretend you’re ill; shouldn’t be hard. They’ve had you all week, anyway. It’s my turn to be selfish.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Arthur tells him, chuckling, but he presses his nose into the back of Merlin’s neck and sighs deeply, contentedly, and says no more. Merlin closes his eyes against the sun and falls asleep, warm and utterly at ease.


End file.
